


The Winter Trail

by Keiko Kirin (sakana17)



Category: Peacemakers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-25
Updated: 2005-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakana17/pseuds/Keiko%20Kirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While investigating a case with Detective Finch, Marshal Stone considers where the trail has led him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winter Trail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arduinna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arduinna/gifts).



> Originally written for Arduinna in the Yuletide 2005 Exchange.

The gash was deep: a black-purple band cut into the neck. Marshal Jared Stone pursed his lips, crouched next to the body, and brushed away some new-fallen snow. The ground had been too cold and hard for the blood to seep in completely, and a thin, frozen, bloody film extended in a wide circle from the gash. Stone stared into open and unseeing eyes for a moment, then reverently closed them and stood up.

 

"Who was he?" Detective Finch stepped closer, tilting his head as he examined the body and its surroundings.

 

"Frederick Schellenberger. He has a horse farm near here, on the other side of the railroad tracks."

 

Finch glanced up. "Friend of yours?"

 

"No," said Stone. At Finch's questioning arch of an eyebrow he added, "I only met him a few times. I didn't really know him." He paced out a perimeter from the body, noting the remnants of a fire and a confusing array of recent tracks by a nearby tree. "Pedro, when did Mr. Schellenberger ride out here? How long was he gone?"

 

Pedro, one of the Schellenberger hands, shivered. He hadn't moved or taken his eyes off the body since bringing them here. Stone placed a hand on Pedro's shoulder. "Pedro," he said, raising his voice. "How long was Mr. Schellenberger gone?"

 

Pedro started, tearing his gaze away from the corpse. He looked up at Stone with frightened, unhappy eyes. "Two nights ago. We were having supper--Mrs. Schellenberger, she cooks for us, you see--when we heard the stable door, some sounds. Mr. Schellenberger thinks his new stud is too restless, maybe, and tries to get out, and sure enough we heard the horses running outside. Mr. Schellenberger took Joseph and they rode out to find them."

 

Stone noticed Finch carefully reaching into Schellenberger's coat pockets and stepped back to keep Pedro looking away. "Who was at supper?" he asked.

 

"Me, Joseph. Mr. and Mrs. Schellenberger. Mr. Jacob wasn't here. He went to Denver that morning."

 

"We're only a few miles from the farm, aren't we?" Finch said, rising. "Why did it take so long to find his body?"

 

Pedro shot Finch a glance and shook his head. "We thought they were trailing the new stud. The other horses that bolted didn't go far, they were all back by yesterday sunset. But the stud, he never came back, and Mr. Schellenberger had paid a lot for him. He wouldn't let him run away. But last night, Mrs. Schellenberger was very worried, so today I rode out to look for them, and I found Mr. Schellenberger's horse by himself, and... and..." Pedro gestured helplessly at the body, gulped down a muffled cry, and turned away, shutting his eyes. "Madre de Dios," he whispered, crossing himself. "It is terrible, terrible. Mr. Schellenberger is a nice man, good man. Only a devil could do this."

 

Finch watched Pedro impassively, but Stone believed his shock and grief. Besides, what murderer could ride into town calling for the marshal two days after slashing his victim's throat? The sound of wagon wheels creaking over the snowy ground interrupted his thoughts. As Katie Owen pulled her cart to a stop, she stared down at the body for a moment.

 

"I guess we know what killed him," she said quietly.

 

Pedro winced and crossed himself again. Stone saw how pale Katie's cheeks were, how her eyes had widened with horror at the spectacle. She straightened the hat flopping over her forehead and jumped down from the cart. Finch went to her, speaking with a respectful softness. "He's been out here two days and is very cold, very rigid," he said. "He might not be easy to move."

 

Katie swallowed, nodding, and looked from the body to Stone. "Right. I'll need help with this. Marshal?"

 

Stone took a last look at Frederick Schellenberger's face. No horror there, just slight surprise and sadness. With a silent pledge to find the coward who'd taken a life so quickly and mercilessly, Stone bent down to lift the corpse's feet.

 

\-----

 

While Finch and Katie took the body to Silver City, Stone rode with Pedro to the farm to bring the bad news to Mrs. Schellenberger. He left Pedro there to see her through the initial shock and tears, and rode back to the site to take another look at the tracks. The snow, though light, had been falling steadily all day, and the ground underneath was hardened with cold. Some faint tracks were visible next to a tree where a man might tether his horse, but they were crisscrossed with more tracks and scuffs, leaving Stone with nothing distinct to follow. He circled out from the spot where the fire had been and found a broken branch at the edge of a stand of evergreens. By now the snow had stopped, and after searching among the pine cones and dry, dead grass, when the light began to wane, he returned to the Schellenberger farm to speak with the widow.

 

Ida Schellenberger was a tall, pale, broad-shouldered woman who spoke with the trace of a European accent. Her blue eyes were bloodshot from crying, but she sat calmly at the kitchen table across from Stone.

 

"Marshal," she said, meeting his gaze directly, "I just want to know: did Frederick suffer?"

 

Jared hesitated for a moment. "I... No. No, it would have been quick."

 

She nodded once and looked down at her hands.

 

"Ma'am, I apologize for this, but I need to ask you some questions. It will help me find whoever did this."

 

She didn't speak, but nodded again.

 

"Can you think of anyone who would have wanted your husband dead? Did he have any enemies?" Jared asked.

 

Ida paused before answering. "Marshal, is there a landowner out here who hasn't quarrelled over water rights, the railroad, the mines...? Do you know any man alive who hasn't haggled over the price of a horse? But enemies?" She shook her head. "Frederick was a good man. Yes, you'll find men who quarrelled with him, but I can't think that any of them would do such an evil, evil thing. They are our neighbors." Her voice quavered and broke on the last word, but she composed herself and sat perfectly still, eyes never leaving his.

 

"Were there any recent quarrels?" he asked. She shook her head with a murmured reply. Stone scratched the back of his neck, reluctant to proceed, lest his next question become the seed for assumption, conviction, and persecution.

 

"Well, if you think of anything that might be helpful, you let me know," he said as he rose, prevaricating. "There's just one more thing. Have you seen Joseph O'Connor since that night? We, uh... we didn't find him."

 

"Joseph?" cried Ida, staring up at Stone with wide eyes. After a moment's silence when she searched his face, plainly trying to read his thoughts, she said, "You can't think Joseph did this. He's worked for my husband for twelve years. He stayed with him after Frederick's first wife passed away, helped him with Jacob and the farm. He came with us from Indiana, and taught me how to keep the accounts. Joseph is like family. He couldn't..." She broke off with a sob. "Oh! He must be dead. Or injured. He would have gone after the killer... oh, Marshal, you must find him. What will I do without Joseph... without Frederick?"

 

Her voice had grown increasingly unsteady and girl-like, and now she fell into tears again, her body shaking with harsh sobs. Stone found a few inadequate words of comfort and stood there in awkward sympathy until the worst had passed. Ida rose, wiping her eyes, and saw him to the door, apologizing for being weak.

 

"Ma'am, you're as strong a woman as any I know. You'll let me know if anything comes to mind. I'll need to speak with Jacob, is he about?"

 

She looked blank. "Oh, no," she whispered. "Jacob comes back today. He doesn't know... I'll have to tell him..." And with a look of utter misery, she bade Jared farewell, and he left her there to wait for her stepson.

 

\-----

 

Jared sat alone at his desk, nursing a whiskey, eyes closed. The noise from Luci's was particularly boisterous tonight; Stone ignored it. It wasn't until the door opened and he heard the creak of a floorboard under an expensive boot that he came to life.

 

"Finch," he said without opening his eyes.

 

The boots stopped, then Finch's voice, closer than expected, said, "You look tired."

 

Stone opened his eyes to find Finch peering at him curiously, as if Stone were under that microscope of his. Lately he'd taken notice of the ways Finch looked at him and could only wonder what such intensities of gaze meant. This particular look took some getting used to.

 

"Not easy to tell a woman her husband's dead, murdered," Jared said shortly. Adding in an undertone, "And I've been doing too much of that lately."

 

Finch had heard the undertone. "Yes," he murmured, frowning and glancing down at something in his hands.

 

"Find something?" Stone asked, taking a drink of whiskey.

 

"This was in the dead man's waistcoat." He handed Stone a soft, worn, folded piece of paper and sat down across the desk. "It was inside a hidden pocket sewn into the lining." Finch couldn't quite keep the excitement out of his voice; he'd already decided this was an important clue.

 

Stone unfolded the paper and looked at the small, neat writing. He squinted and held it out at arm's length, adjusting the lamp, and finally set the paper down and patted his pockets for his spectacles.

 

"Here," said Finch, sliding the paper back across the desk and holding it up. His mellow voice took on a dramatic air as he read aloud:

 

> "I see in you God's goodness and perfection. There can be no angel in heaven  
> sweeter than you are to me. When we are called to the day of reckoning, let us  
> go together, hand in hand, and be not afraid."

  
As read by Finch, the sentimental words were gentle and sincere, as convincing as if Finch had meant them. Unable to disregard the feeling that an intimacy had passed between them, Stone frowned and reached for his pipe.

 

Finch handed the paper back to Stone with a look of expectant satisfaction.

 

Stone turned the paper over. "Unsigned."

 

"Yes, but it's clearly a love letter..." Finch began.

 

"So?" Stone chewed on the stem of his unlit pipe. "It's probably from his wife."

 

Finch leaned forward. "I'd thought of that. But why keep it so hidden? See these folds? It was folded into a narrow strip and the pocket ran along the edge of the lining. I took it for a length of fabric at first, but Katie discovered the opening..."

 

Finch's desire to be right--to have found evidence--annoyed Jared, whose mind had gone back to Mrs. Schellenberger's tears. He did not want to face that woman and tell her her husband had been cheating on her. There were plenty of reasons why a husband might have secreted away a note from his wife. Stone was just too weary to counter Finch's enthusiasm with them.

 

He offered up the simplest explanation. "Perhaps it's from his first wife."

 

"His first wife?" Finch repeated with some consternation, sitting back.

 

"Yes, Jacob's mother. She died when he was young, back East. Of consumption, I heard..." He trailed off as the door opened and Chipper stood in the doorway.

 

"Marshal, you better come. Could be trouble."

 

The trouble they found at Luci's was that Jacob Schellenberger had been drinking, and was now loudly calling for a posse to hunt down Joseph O'Connor for murdering his father. As Jared had feared, Joseph's absence was taken as proof of guilt, and Jacob, a young man about Chipper's age, had turned to spirits to soothe his grief and fire up his need for vengeance. Sympathy combined with a certain hard acceptance of lawless violence made many of the men of Silver City receptive to Jacob's call to arms, and there was an air of agitated restlessness pervading the saloon. Stone walked to the center of the floor and casually drew back his coat so that his badge and gun were plain to see. Finch was at his shoulder in tense readiness.

 

"Here's the marshal!" Jacob yelled. "Why's he in here when that murderous bastard O'Connor is out free? Come on! Who's with me?"

 

There were cries of assent from the crowd and several men stood. Stone stepped forward.

 

"Now, Jacob, there's no proof Joseph did it."

 

"Proof?!" roared Jacob. "My father's dead! Joseph's gone! What more proof do you need?" He took a few swaggering steps away from the bar, glaring at Stone.

 

"I think you'd better go back to the farm," Stone said calmly, staring him down and casting admonishing looks at the men who'd risen to join the manhunt. "You're needed there. Let me and Detective Finch do our job."

 

Jacob swore, kicked aside an empty chair, marched up and breathed whiskey in Stone's face. He swayed a little and muttered, "You... you tellin' me to run on home? I'm supposed to do nothin' while my father's killer runs free?" He squinted watery eyes at Stone and balled his hands into fists.

 

Finch stepped past Stone and laid a hand on Jacob's shoulder. "He won't run free." He glanced at Stone, who motioned for some men to come take Jacob before the kid did something stupid, or passed out. As they took him away, Stone spotted Pedro sitting alone at a table, bleary-eyed over an empty bottle. Stone went over.

 

"What did you tell him?"

 

Pedro looked away, shaking his head. "Only the truth. What I told you. But Mr. Jacob, he... He said he knew it was Joseph, and he came in here, and now everyone thinks it was Joseph."

 

Finch crouched down to be at Pedro's eye-level and asked in a confiding voice, "What do you think? Do you think Joseph did it?"

 

Pedro rubbed his forehead. "I... I can't believe it. Joseph and Mr. Schellenberger, they were friends."

 

"Pedro," Finch said, carefully not looking at Stone, who guessed where his questioning was headed, "did Mr. Schellenberger ever act as if hiding something? Go away for periods of time by himself, perhaps? Was there any unhappiness between him and Mrs. Schellenberger?"

 

Pedro frowned, looking from Finch to Stone and back again. "No. What--"

 

"It's all right, Pedro," Stone broke in. "That's all for now. Right, Detective Finch?"

 

Finch shot him an impatient look but stood up and followed him outside. "Do you know O'Connor? Is he capable of slitting a man's throat?"

 

Stone let out a breath and saw it cloud in the night air, lit by lamp light spilling from the saloon. "I've seen him around. As for being capable..." He looked at Finch, whose face shone golden from the light, with shadows following the graceful curves of his brow, nose, cheeks, and chin. "Who can say what a man is capable of? One thing I know: we had better find Joseph O'Connor before Jacob does. I'll head out tomorrow morning. I have an idea of the direction he went."

 

Finch opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead raised his hands and blew on them, rubbing them together for warmth. "I'll make sure the young Mr. Schellenberger doesn't start any trouble. I'd like to pay a visit to the farm, anyway. If my theory about the note is wrong," he said in such a way as made it plain he thought this unlikely, "there are other avenues of investigation. The new horse hasn't been found, either, so I can start there. See who might have wanted him."

 

"Right." Stone paused, looking at him. "Look, Finch... the note may be something, or nothing. But please don't go upsetting Mrs. Schellenberger about it without knowing more. Sound her out first. You know, without revealing too much. Be... circumspect."

 

Finch was smiling at him. "I do know how to question people, Marshal," he said, sounding amused. He leaned closer and patted Stone's shoulder. "It's called being a detective."

 

Stone narrowed his eyes, but before he could think of a retort, Finch had walked away, still wearing that smug smile.

 

\-----

 

In the morning Stone and Finch rode out to the Schellenberger farm together. Stone left Finch there and rode out to the murder site and back to the stand of trees where he'd found the broken branch. He examined the area thoroughly before heading into the trees along the easiest path. Light snow began to fall, only occasionally drifting down through the canopy of evergreen. The trail--if he were indeed following the right one--was unhelpful, unrevealing. He was beginning to doubt it when he found a rock-like clump of horse shit, days old, along the path. On he rode, deeper into the trees, gradually coming across more signs: scuffs in a patch of dried pine needles, a small tuft of wool stuck to rough bark at the height of a rider's shoulder.

 

Now he knew he was on the right trail, but for O'Connor, or for Schellenberger's killer? Or were they one and the same? He didn't know why, but his gut told him the solution wouldn't be that simple. Maybe it came from grim experience. Since Finch had come to Silver City, it seemed like no case was ever simple anymore, and all the secrets and tragedies one little town could hold would burst forth because of their investigations. Not that it was Finch's fault. Finch had brought with him new methods and new ideas, and Stone had long since realized how much he'd come to appreciate Finch's work. He thought of the wrongful imprisonments and executions they had avoided by using Finch's scientific investigations--but also thought of the hostility and resentment they met in town after their investigations led to an unpopular conclusion. No wonder men like Jacob Schellenberger clung to easy, unproven theories and the desire to mete out a swift and merciless justice. It was simpler that way.

 

The trees thinned out as daylight waned, and the snow fell more heavily. The trail continued up into rocky foothills, zigzagged to follow the most level route up Old Miner's Hill. Stone made his camp about a third of the way up the hill, and passed a cold night in a light doze, too alert to his surroundings to sleep deeply. After a mug of strong, bitter coffee in the morning, he set off again, and hadn't ridden very far when he found what convinced him this case would not be simple: the lost stud.

 

Weak and cold, the horse was docile as Stone approached. He fed it from the oats he'd brought for his own horse, and tethered the two together. It would be much slower going, but he couldn't leave it to starve. Now on foot, he climbed the path, leading the horses through fresh snow, the trail only guessed at.

 

The killer had had days to run. Finch, he thought, would be excited by the chase; Stone felt weary and resigned. He wished Finch were here to wake him from his weariness. The path grew steeper and more perilous. Stone tied the horses to a scrawny tree jutting out from jagged boulders and slowly climbed ahead. Snow fell, the day darkened. The snow fell harder, and it was foolish to go on alone. He would have to turn back, at least for today.

 

He returned to the horses, but decided against camping in the rocky, exposed area of the path. He led them down, looking for something more sheltered, when he smelled smoke: the thin, tentative smoke of a fresh campfire. Cautiously he followed the smell, resting one hand on his gun as he drew nearer. The snowfall had thinned, and Stone saw a lone horse and a hunched figure. The person was adding twigs to a fire in the spot Stone recognized as where he'd camped the night before. He left the horses and crept toward the figure, fingers curling around the handle of his gun.

 

The figure stood up straight, and there was no mistaking those shoulders, that profile. Stone let go of his gun and strode forward. "Finch?"

 

Finch turned to greet him with a small smile. "Good, I was hoping you'd come when you saw the fire. Look, I've--"

 

"Finch!" Stone interrupted, exasperated. He glared at him, searching for words, for the reason why Finch's unexpected presence disturbed him so much when just a few hours earlier he had been wishing for it. When no words came, he turned away and went back for the horses. Finch was sitting by the fire, pulling something out of a satchel, when Stone returned. Stone sat on the ground and waited for the explanation.

 

Finch held up a ledger. "I found this," he said. He opened it and passed it to Stone.

 

Stone slid his spectacles out of his waistcoat pocket and put them on. He picked up the book and read through lines of neat entries detailing farm expenses, feed and hay, a description of a purchased horse. Nothing seemed very remarkable or suspicious about the entries. He lowered the book and found Finch watching him closely.

 

Finch handed him a familiar piece of paper. "Compare the handwriting."

 

Stone unfolded the love note from Mr. Schellenberger's waistcoat and looked at the writing. He was no expert, but they did look the same. "So?" he said, passing the ledger back to Finch. "Then the note was from Mrs. Schellenberger."

 

"No," Finch said with quiet certainty. He turned a page in the ledger and held it out for Stone to see. "Look at the dates. These entries are from nine years ago. I talked to Ida Schellenberger. She married Mr. Schellenberger six years ago. His first wife died eleven years ago."

 

Stone glanced at the writing again, and at the note. "Then who...? Mr. Schellenberger?"

 

Finch shook his head, his gaze still intent. The answer was forming in Stone's mind even as Finch spoke. "Joseph."

 

Stone read the note again. As if expecting him to protest, Finch continued quietly and deliberately, "Mr. Schellenberger never kept the accounts himself. He injured his right hand as a child and had trouble holding a pen. His handwriting was shaky as a result--Ida showed me some samples: his signature in his Bible, his draft of a deed. He avoided writing as much as possible. Joseph kept the accounts after the first Mrs. Schellenberger died."

 

Stone folded the note and handed it to Finch. "He showed Ida Schellenberger how to. She told me."

 

Finch closed the note inside the ledger and put it back into his satchel. "So Joseph wrote the note," he said, picking up a stick and poking the fire with it.

 

The implications of that, and the fact that Mr. Schellenberger had kept the note in such a hidden but intimate manner, were not lost on Jared. He took off his spectacles and slid them into his pocket. "Doesn't prove he killed him."

 

"No," Finch agreed. "In fact, if anything, it argues for his innocence, if he felt such..." he hesitated, and Stone noticed the color rise in his cheeks. Finch glanced away, frowning. "Unless they argued... A lover scorned... We can't be sure, and since Joseph is still out here, I... Well, I thought you ought to know."

 

Jared regarded Finch for a moment, curious at his manner. A suspicion he had once formed long ago and never allowed himself to pursue emerged, but Jared set those thoughts aside. The murder was still unsolved and, true to his worst predictions, it had stirred up more secrets and unhappiness.

 

"Did you find out anything else?"

 

"Yes, though of what significance, I don't know," Finch replied. He broke the stick he was holding and tossed the ends into the fire. "Jacob will inherit the farm, but he's said Ida can stay there if she likes. There doesn't seem to be any discord between them. Jacob didn't rouse until noon yesterday, by the way. Ida kept him home, but he spent most of the day drinking and passed out early. The accounts show the farm is doing well, but not prosperous by any means. Mr. Schellenberger had spent a considerable amount on the new stud, so there wasn't much ready money." He paused, picked up another stick and drew some lines in the ashes. "My examination of the dead man's wound suggests a knife was used, cut from left to right, so the killer is most likely right-handed, and stood behind the victim."

 

Stone nodded, watching the fire. Frederick Schellenberger and Joseph O'Connor. Pedro had said they were friends. Ida had said Joseph was like family. Had she known about them? Could she have discovered their secret and murdered her husband out of jealousy? He didn't believe so. Besides, the note proved less than Finch thought. It didn't prove they were lovers beyond words. It might have been written years ago, and the affection between them, if it had ever been passionate, could have cooled.

 

Stone almost asked Finch what he thought about the note, and about those who could commit their feelings to words so readily, but stopped himself. It wasn't Finch's opinion on the words as evidence Stone wanted, but his opinion on the sentiments those words expressed.

 

He was roused from his thoughts by Finch producing some bread and cold roast turkey, a meal provided by Katie before Finch had left to search for Stone that morning. They ate in silence as night fell, then they took care of the horses and spread out their blankets beside the fire. Stone sat cross-legged on his blanket and smoked his pipe, sifting through the case again. Across the fire from him, Finch wrapped up in his blanket and laid down.

 

"Jared," he said after a while. Finch didn't often use his given name, and when he did there was an odd softness about it. "There's something I've wanted to ask you."

 

Finch's quiet voice made Stone suspect the question would be one he didn't want to answer. He exhaled some smoke and watched him, waiting.

 

"What made you stay?" Finch asked. "From what I've heard, you never settled for long anywhere else, and there was a time last year when I thought you might be thinking of leaving Silver City, after the Hamilton case. Why did you stay?"

 

The tension eased, and Stone removed his pipe and tapped it against the toe of his boot to dislodge the ash. "Gets tiring, moving around. Sooner or later, comes a time when it's easier to stay than to leave." Especially, he thought, when someone else has stayed, too.

 

He folded his pipe into a kerchief and set it aside. "I could ask you the same thing: why stay? Why Silver City? I thought you'd be on your way to San Francisco by now."

 

Finch smiled wistfully. He shifted onto his back. "I? No. Oh, I suppose one day I'll move on, but right now... As you said, it's easier to stay." His smile faded. His voice was serious, quiet. "I've always worked alone, to an extent. I wasn't suited for partnerships. My partners were either too dull in their thinking, too unimaginative and routine, or, if their intellects were close to mine, they were too competitive for us to work effectively. For a long time, I felt myself rather above the need for partners, for companionship." He fell silent, looking up at the sky.

 

There were times when Finch could look so young, so vulnerable, it made Stone ache inside. This time there was a grave stillness about him that made him seem older than his years, yet still so vulnerable. Finch turned onto his side and looked at Jared.

 

"That changed," Finch said. And now there was no vulnerability, just the intense certainty of his gaze: the look he got when discovering the significance of a clue. "I met you."

 

Stone gazed back, calmer than he would have expected, not as surprised as he probably should have been. He gazed with the unhurried and unhidden indulgence he'd wanted for a long time, for months, for more than a year. He studied Finch's face, found no description but that it was pleasing to look upon. It was a perfectly pleasing face, both soft and sharp. Once, at their first meeting, he would have sneeringly called it _pretty_, but it was not pretty. Nor handsome, not exactly. But it was the face of a beautiful man.

 

Finch didn't waver beneath his gaze; indeed, he appreciated the indulgence and invited it. Then, with a self-conscious start, Jared realized that Finch was studying him right back, and he glanced away.

 

"And Katie," said Stone. "You met her, too."

 

Finch smiled softly. "And Katie. Yes, of course."

 

Stone stretched out on his blanket. "And Chipper."

 

Finch chuckled.

 

Stone waited a few moments before saying slowly, "There's something I've wanted to ask you, too."

 

Finch's look was intent. "Yes?"

 

"Does anyone really call you 'Larimer'?"

 

Finch relaxed and gave him an arch smile. "My mother."

 

Stone grinned. "The missionary?"

 

"It was the name of her favorite uncle," Finch sniffed, reverting to the stuffy accent he'd had when he'd first arrived in Silver City as a know-it-all Pinkerton man.

 

Stone paused. "Was he a missionary, too?"

 

To which Finch didn't reply, but Stone heard him snort and mutter something about "a perfectly fine name... in the family for generations..."

 

\-----

 

The bitter cold woke them up, Finch first, just before dawn. Finch built up enough of a fire to brew some coffee while Stone readied the horses. They sat side-by-side close to the fire, sipping coffee as the first blush of sunrise colored the cloudless sky.

 

Stone had hoped for clearer thinking about the case--and about Finch--when morning came, but found he had no great sudden solutions. Finch took their flasks in search of a nearby stream, and was gone long enough for Stone to get impatient when he heard Finch call out for him. Hand to his gun, he followed Finch's voice.

 

Finch stood on a table of rock that jutted out before a narrow waterfall trickling down the hillside. Face grim, he led Stone to the edge, an overhang above a deep, rocky crevice. Stone looked into the crevice and saw the bent, lifeless bodies of a man and a horse covered in frost and a light coating of snow. He cursed softly and knelt, leaning forward to get a better look. The man's face was turned in an unnatural angle--his neck had snapped from the fall--and Stone saw black hair, dark eyes.

 

Stone sat back on his heels. "Joseph O'Connor. I can't swear to it from this distance, but my gut tells me it's him," he said, rising.

 

Finch paced along the edge. "I think we can bring him up. Some ropes here, and here. I can climb down and secure the body. It'll take several men, though."

 

"Ride back to town. Bring Chipper, Isaac. Anyone strong who can come. Let Katie know you'll be bringing her another body."

 

Finch stopped pacing and looked at Stone. "And what are you going to do?"

 

"I'm going to follow that trail," Stone said. "I have an idea... Look, don't go back to the Schellenberger farm on your way back. We'll keep this to ourselves for now. If you see Pedro by himself, get him to Katie's, tell him to wait there. He can identify Joseph. And take the stud back with you when you go. He needs to be seen to."

 

Finch nodded, and Stone left him to take care of the rest. No longer weary, Stone made good time retracing his route back up the hill, now more alert to other signs along the path. The trail was frustratingly cold in all respects, but after a while he found a spot where the path stayed level for a handful of yards beyond where it hooked upward. Instead of continuing up, Stone rode out until the path ended in a precarious rocky decline. Even under a couple of inches of snow, he could see where someone had skidded down. Stone left the path and followed, guessing the direction when there were no more signs, and by afternoon had left the foothills and was galloping toward the railroad.

 

\-----

 

It was evening when Stone rode into Silver City, dusty and tired from the long ride and unhappy about what he faced next. Finch was waiting for him in the office. He stood up, throwing on his coat, as Stone walked in the door.

 

"Pedro identified the body. It's Joseph."

 

Stone went straight to his desk, took out a bottle and glass, poured two fingers of revival and downed it in one swallow. "Where's Pedro now?"

 

"Luci's."

 

"Jacob with him?"

 

"No. Jacob didn't come into town." Finch gave Stone an assessing look. "I think I've figured it out. Are we going out there now?"

 

"One stop on the way," Stone said, heading for the door.

 

The stop was the train station, where, as Stone suspected, the ticket-seller could only remember Jacob buying the ticket to Denver, but couldn't remember seeing him board the train. From there, Stone and Finch rode to the Schellenberger farm, Stone filling Finch in on what he'd found.

 

A lamp was lit at the farmhouse, and through the window Stone saw Ida sitting by the fireplace, reading the Bible. Finch knocked on the door, and Ida let them in, watching them worriedly. Jacob sat at the kitchen table with a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He looked up as they entered.

 

"Here again." He spat on the floor. "While my father lies cold in his grave, and that... that bastard O'Connor is out there, free as a bird."

 

Stone went to stand by the table while Finch gently led Ida back to her chair and stayed close to her. Stone stared down at Jacob, but addressed his words to Ida. "Ma'am, I'm sorry to bring this news, but we found Joseph. He's dead."

 

Jacob's eyes flashed. Ida cried out softly, "Oh! Oh, dear Joseph. Was he... Did the killer find him, too?"

 

"Yes," Finch said flatly. "He did."

 

Jacob sat up straight, looking warily from Stone to Finch.

 

"He fell down some rocks up on Old Miner's Hill. We think the killer pursued him up there and forced him off the edge." Finch glanced over his shoulder at Jacob.

 

Stone slowly walked around the table to stand behind Jacob's chair.

 

"Of course, it might've happened differently," Stone said reasonably. "Joseph might've killed Mr. Schellenberger and run away, and fallen off the rocks by accident. That was my theory, but Detective Finch here--well, you know how he is. Always has to find a complicated explanation when a simple one would do as well. What do you think, Jacob?"

 

Jacob twisted back in his chair, a wild look in his eyes. "I... I think you're right, Marshal Stone. I know Joseph killed my father." He rose from the chair.

 

Stone placed a heavy hand on Jacob's shoulder and pushed him back down. "Yes, you seem very sure of that, Jacob. So sure that perhaps you won't mind answering a couple of questions Detective Finch has. Just to clear everything up, you understand."

 

Jacob didn't answer, and Ida stared at them uncertainly. Finch left her and approached the table.

 

"You were in Denver since Saturday last?" he asked.

 

Jacob nodded.

 

"And you boarded the train in Silver City? Not, say, in Black Creek?"

 

Jacob started and tried to stand, but Stone placed both hands on his shoulders. Finch paced back and forth, tapping his chin in thought. Overdoing the theatricals, Stone thought, giving him a little frown.

 

"It's very interesting, you see," Finch said as if conferring with Jacob as a colleague, not a suspect. "Marshal Stone found a trail that led from Old Miner's Hill to Black Creek. Oh, there's not much to see now, with the snow, of course. But there was one curious thing: a couple of miles from Black Creek, in the woods, he found a temporary shelter where someone had propped some old branches together, and had clearly made a fire... Camped there for a while, I'd say. Wouldn't you, Marshal?"

 

"Yep," said Stone, gripping Jacob's shoulders. "And then there was the ticket-seller in Black Creek, who remembered a young man from the other day buying a ticket to Silver City. They don't sell many of those, since it's close enough for most to ride."

 

Finch leaned over the table and asked quietly, "Why did you do it, Jacob?"

 

"Jacob!" Ida cried out. She looked alarmed, shocked.

 

"Shut up!" Jacob yelled at her. "You don't understand. You didn't know!" He struggled in the chair, but finding Stone's grasp too powerful, he reached for the bottle and lifted it. Finch grabbed his wrist and pried the bottleneck from his fingers. Stone yanked Jacob's arms back and held him while Finch secured his wrists with manacles.

 

"You can't prove it, can't prove anything," Jacob said as they led him to the door. Ida burst into tears. "Don't cry for him!" he called to her from the porch. "He was filthy! A filthy, sinful degenerate. He doesn't deserve tears! He deserves the hell I sent him to."

 

\-----

 

In the end, Jacob confessed, filling in the details. He'd found Joseph's letters to his father hidden under a creaking floorboard Jacob had meant to fix; after destroying the letters, he'd plotted the crime, setting up his supposed trip to Denver, then sneaking back to scare the horses; it had been a risk to rely on his father taking Joseph to search, but his father had always shown a preference for Joseph; he'd followed them and found them with the stud; he'd killed his father, took the stud, and chased Joseph; he hadn't intended for Joseph to be found, so the blame for his father's murder would fall on the runaway farm hand; he'd ridden the stud up the hill then left the path and hiked toward Black Creek, camping in the woods until he knew the train would be coming from Denver; he'd reached Black Creek on foot, bought the ticket to Silver City and arrived in town to be met by Pedro with the news.

 

But though his confession to Stone, in the presence of Finch and Mayor Smith, was laced with epithets and curses upon his father and Joseph, when it was done Jacob's anger had drained away. Perhaps revolted by the thought that he would be tarred with his father's sins, he asked that the reason not be declared publicly. He would accept his sentence, and would rather be hanged as the man who killed his father than be pitied as the son of a degenerate. Stone disliked hangings, but had no pity for the man. These murders had been cold-blooded, planned in advance, and brutal. And all based on the discovery of a few letters. Perhaps Frederick Schellenberger and Joseph O'Connor had been lovers in deed as well as word; perhaps not. There would never be an answer, now.

 

A few days after the hanging, Stone rode to the Schellenberger farm alone. Ida Schellenberger had sold off all the horses and most of their belongings, and Pedro had already found new work in the mines. Stone found Ida carrying a large trunk to a waiting wagon. Pedro would take her to the train station. Stone dismounted when he saw her and helped her with the trunk.

 

He wasn't sure why he'd come to bid her farewell. He felt sorry for her, but usually this kept him at a distance, uncomfortably aware that bringing the killer to justice was usually no solace to the grieving. In this case, particularly less so.

 

As he helped her up into the wagon, Ida gave him a tired, sad smile. "Thank you, Marshal."

 

Stone nodded, not knowing what to say. In that moment, standing beside the empty house and stable, he was acutely aware of all that she'd lost: her husband, her home, everyone with whom she'd shared her life in Silver City. What was it he'd said to Finch? That it was easier to stay than to move on? Except when you'd lost everything. Except when there was no one to stay for.

 

"I hope..." Ida said hoarsely. "I hope their souls find peace, with God's love."

 

Something about the way she said it reminded Jared of the love letter, and he wondered how much she knew about Jacob's real motive, or if she accepted the town's theory that Jacob had killed his father to inherit the farm. But Jared couldn't question her about it, and came away from his visit knowing nothing more than he'd known before. Before he left, he wished her well and happy in her new life, and he meant every word sincerely.

 

A lamp was on in the window of Finch's laboratory when Stone left Luci's that evening, practically sober despite his best efforts. He saw Finch sitting and reading. It reminded him of Ida with her Bible, the night they'd arrested Jacob, and, disturbed by the memory, Stone went over and rapped on the glass.

 

"What the hell am I doing?" he muttered to himself as soon as Finch looked up in surprise. But when Finch opened the door and invited him inside, Stone followed, sat down in the offered chair and gladly accepted the offered glass. Smoother than whiskey--than Luci's whiskey, anyway--it went down warm and burned a cozy little fire in Stone's belly.

 

Jared nodded at the book by Finch's chair. "Reading?" he asked, and felt stupid for asking the obvious.

 

"Yes, I was just looking up some properties of..." Finch trailed off, seeing Jared's face, and smiled a little. "Yes, just a little reading before bed." His cheeks colored, and he looked very young and oddly shy.

 

"I won't keep you from your bed, then," said Jared, meaning to rise, but reluctant to leave. When had his desire not to be alone turned into a desire to be with Finch, he wondered.

 

"No, stay." Finch paused and looked him over. "You've been thinking about it, too, haven't you?" he asked, no longer young but quite intense and attractive.

 

"About what?" Stone asked suspiciously.

 

"This case," Finch sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, and the lamplight gleamed off the ring he wore on his little finger. Stone had often wondered about that ring. He watched it move, disappear into a wave of dark hair, reappear and dance in the light as Finch moved his hands.

 

"Jared?"

 

"What?" Jared said with the irritability of one caught doing something he can't defend.

 

"You look tired."

 

Stone looked at him, thinking, _So do you. But not with the weariness I feel. You look tired like being woken from a nap._ He watched that pleasant face, the pleasing face of a beautiful man watching him right back. _What do you see when you do that?_ he wondered.

 

Unaware that he'd said it until Finch smiled softly at him and answered, "I see a man trying to hide something on a face that hides nothing, not strength nor grief nor joy nor pain. You have..." he paused, cleared his throat, and said in a more ordinary, more circumspect voice, "You have a very expressive face. One might make a study of it. A professional study."

 

Stone raised his eyebrows and smiled, happy to gaze into that pleasing face, which was also unable to hide what it wished. "I'd have to wonder about their profession," he remarked, and Finch seemed reassured by his sarcasm. And inside, Stone felt a warmth not from the spirits but from Finch's honest answer.

 

"Tell me," said Stone. "Who else calls you Larimer?"

 

Finch scowled, and Jared continued, "Lady friends? Lovers? Did your partners, the dull ones or the competitive ones, call you Larimer?" When Finch simply stared uncertainly at him, Jared added quietly, "Should I call you Larimer? When we're like this? Alone... talking."

 

Finch's face softened, flushed, was both younger and wiser than it had ever been. "It may take some getting used to, coming from you."

 

Jared felt like he was falling, and a rush of thoughts filled his mind as he fell: _I want to be with you. I want you to stay with me. I don't want you to go to San Francisco or Chicago or anywhere else. Not without me. I can't be restless anymore. I'm tired, but you wake me up. Stay with me._ Words he tried to bring to his tongue--it was important that Finch know.

 

But Finch, face still flushed and charming, was looking at him keenly and with a kind of welcoming satisfaction Jared had never seen before. Finch already knew. He was a very thorough detective, after all.

 

"Yeah," said Jared. "This will take some getting used to."

 

Finch smiled. "I think we'll get used to it."

 

Jared smiled at Finch's smile. _I think I already am_.

 

 

The end


End file.
